We Don't Have A Song
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: AU in which Dean and Cas are much exploited, closeted teen singers. It actually turned out quite depressing, and dare I say hot? Taylor swift stole my brain. Now with cheesy ending.
1. Chapter 1

_I wrote this in like, an hour. Out of shame. For it's purposes, assume Dean and Castiel are teen pop hits with very pushy parents. Cas is a little Taylor swift/a random choir boy, Dean is more Miley Cyrus/country western. For some reason, this got really depressing and vitriolic. _

_Hey, did you know you could follow me on twitter at JollySnidge? (pimp...pimp)_

Bettina and Ashley something, kiss at the MTV choice awards. Right up on stage in the spotlight, a clusterfuck mess of a kiss, full with tongues and cherry lip-gloss. Like they even understand what it means – aside from the front covers of the gossip rags of course. Like busting a pre-pubescent tit out of their red carpet dress, only of mutual benefit.

Dean catches Castiel's eyes across the stage, he's waiting in the right wing, Castiel in the left. Cas looks tighter, more wound up than usual, in his white shirt and dark blue suit. Dean is feeling a little sick, a little nervous, and keeps fiddling with the frayed parts of his jeans and the tight fabric of his shirt.

There's an unholy shriek from the crowd as the two tweens make good for the cameras. It's nothing compared to the cacophony of shrill screams and roar of lower voices as he and Castiel replace the two girls at the podium. It's deafening and disorientating. Castiel looks downright afraid, blinded by camera flashes. Even though Dean knows he's done this before, they both have.

Ok, so they're from slightly different backgrounds. Castiel is very Christian chorister makes good as a pop icon. So freaking squeaky clean Dean's surprised to see him sweating a little under the brilliant lights. Dean's a little more hardened, still as much of a sell out thanks to his dad, but carrying off the country western – country sweetheart/ bad ass with a little more wiggle room for out of the box behaviour.

He thinks Cas might hate him a little for that.

They stand side by side and read the autocue, Castiel is poker faced and ethereal, Dean smirks his way through it, thumb stuck in his belt. They present the award and get the hell off stage before the screaming can truly render them tone deaf.

Behind the scenes Bettina-whoever is snapping at her make-up girl and already looking half drunk. Someone's going to have trouble keeping her in line tonight. Ashely-somone's off, probably in the bathroom snorting or heaving – who knows or even gives a shit, right? Dean feels cold from the neck down, though his face is burning.

Cas's hand brushes his and his skin flares up, like flopping down next to a space heater in midwinter.

Through the fuss and chaos they make their way to the back, to the men's restroom. Once inside, Dean kicks the doors to the other stalls, briefly checking to make sure that they're alone. Castiel is standing by the scummy sinks, rabbit eyed and twitchy with fear and expectation.

Dean backs into a stall, resting one hand on the wall and cocking his thumb into his waistband. "Come here, baby." He drawls. It's a fucking act and Cas knows it, knows that Dean is scared shitless of being found out, of losing everything and having his Dad throw a fit that his heartthrob Texan son is a fucking homo.

Cas knows it's an act and he goes anyway, feeding his fear into the desire that burns white hot all the time with them. Burns so bright it's hard to keep hidden.

They collide like contracting matter, like a black hole being born. Dean against Cas and Cas up against him, the cubicle door slamming shut and Castiel backing up against it.

Dean kisses his mouth, the hollow of his throat, the flat skin between his collar bones. Castiel is delicious and it's never enough. Never enough. Sometimes, in lonely motels and hotels between gigs and appearances, Dean thinks he'd like to rip Cas up, swallow him down in blood and muscle and bone, until his body ran on the energy of it, until their pulses swamped each other. On those nights he thinks of the songs he could write about Cas's skin, his soft lashes and the sound of his fragile pulse.

He thinks, that's real fucking love, and nothing else comes close.

But he sings about waitresses and high school girls.

All the time he wants this. One boy, always and forever.

Castiel presses up into the touch of Dean's mouth, gasping and stroking his fingers into the hair at the back of Dean's head. He whimpers and Dean shushes him gently, they don't have time – there's never enough fucking _time_. He leans back and snaps Cas's belt open, tugging the zipper on his pants down and looking into Castiel's surprised, awe struck face. He always looks like that, like this is the best thing, the only thing in the world.

It's that sweet, rapturous expression that has made Castiel famous, and filled his parents pockets by default. But that look has never been for God, it's been for music, and for Dean – the two loves of his entire life. If Castiel's 'Daddy' ever finds out that his choral angel is a fag, he'll probably kill him himself.

Dean is on his knees on a dirty washroom floor, Castiel's pants around the boy's ankles, his cock halfway down Dean's throat, curving hard and needy as Castiel's body seizes up against the door, one had thrown up to clutch the top of the wooden panel for support, the other rubbing tenderly at the nape of Dean's neck. Castiel squirms and gasps and blasphemes like it's going out of style.

The door bangs. A cubicle bangs and Dean can hear, over the rush of his pulse and the distraction of the hot flesh stretching his lips, someone tossing their guts into the far toilet.

Castiel is going crazy with the pressure to keep silent, but Dean keeps going, his own cock too hard for words and blood blaring in his ears.

Somehow, he'd be so glad for them to be caught. He just wants it to be over. The worst can happen and then he can let it all drop.

But whichever star or starlet is hacking up their last meal doesn't seem bothered by the slight scuffling sounds from the other side of the bathroom, and they leave without investigating.

As soon as the door bangs closed Castiel breaks.

"Fuck...oh..uh...fuck...please...please..." his voice gains volume and ragged desperation and his hand is both stroking and clutching, desperately pushing further inside, until despite the number of times they've done this, Dean's eyes are watering. Dean rubs his fingers in the saliva that's slowly been coating his chin, snakes them back and up, until Castiel is squirming down and panting, his eyes rolling up and fucking obscene things coming out of his mouth.

Castiel comes like an electrocution, harsh, sudden and unrelenting. Dean's got two fingers inside of him being milked by Castiel's hungry body, and Castiel's hand on his face as lets out a helpless moan and snaps his hips up, pulsing in Dean's throat as Dean swallows around him punishingly.

Castiel goes limp against the door, and Dean disentangles them, raw throated and damp fingered, turning Castiel's compliant form around and pushing him face first, towards the door. Castiel raises both hands to the top of the door and widens his stance. They've done this before. He knows how it goes.

Dean's inside and jerking up into Castiel's body in as much time as it takes to force his zipper down. Castiel's legs shake and his fists turn white as they grip the door above him, his moans are encouraging and when Dean strikes his prostate and reaches round to finger his softened dick, Castiel's whole body trembles and he whines as if on the edge of pain.

Dean's lost to the heat, the tightness and trembly, aching, need of Castiel's body for his own. He can feel sweat running down his back, Castiel's shirt is already damp with it. Dean's knees ache from the floor, his body is humming with pleasure and he's tight, waiting for release. Castiel squeezes his spasming internal muscles around him and Dean whites out for a flash, returning to himself on a wave of hot, shivery pleasure.

"Uh...again..." Dean fists Castiel's cock, still wet with saliva and sensitive as a live wire. Castiel grunts and squeezes around him again, and it feels so fucking good Dean knows that the next one will be it. He's thrusting still, shallow and breathless and wanting. "Again..."

Castiel complies with a near howl as Dean thumbs the head of his dick, plumby and raw and greedy for attention.

Dean comes in a series of twisted up pulses, and feels his own come slick the way, and ruts until he's half bent over Castiel's back, breath dragging out of his lungs, body protesting and dick throbbing with the stimulation, softening and slipping out easily. Leaving Castiel leaning on the door, ass red and ruined, contracting and empty, the boy panting and whimpering with need even as his body thrums with orgasm.

Dean tugs his pants up once he's cleaned himself, perches on the toilet seat and steadily mops up Cas's thighs, saliva and sweat and come painting across the greyish toilet paper.

"You are something, you know that, right?" Dean drawls, knowing that Castiel is by no means immune to his accent.

Castiel stiffens, his back still facing Dean. "I know what I am."

Dean caresses the swell of his ass – was there anything better? Anything as lovely? When he bends and presses his lips to it, Castiel makes an awkward little sound and twists to face him, unintentionally replacing his ass with his crotch. Dean kisses his stomach with a sly grin.

"Better?"

Castiel strokes his hair.

The first time they were together was like a summer storm – unexpected and devastating. Dean was performing at a small venue around the same time that Cas was there. They met behind stage and Dean could not stand the stuck up Jesus freak, or Cas's dad. Castiel in turn thought Dean was a pretty boy hick.

So they were both a little wrong.

Dean was smarter than a lot of people thought, he even wanted to go to college. Castiel couldn't have cared less about the bible.

In the middle of a fight backstage, during which time their parents had mercifully left them alone, Dean had felt a kick of something powerful and Castiel had stopped in his yelling about respecting his space and had panted, his lips perfectly soft and pink and full.

They'd practically dry humped that night, clawing at each other's clothes and biting their lips red and plump.

Since then there had been no one else for either of them.

"One day." Dean says, in the ruined cubicle of a toilet somewhere in Texas, "We're going to kiss out there, for everyone to see...and we're going to mean it."

Castiel strokes his face and kisses Dean sweetly on the lips as Dean zips up Cas's pants.

One day.

Until then, it's just another dream, that'll never be a love song.


	2. Chapter 2

_**To all who wanted a second chapter – I hope this cuts it. I might add another later. As always, thanks for the reviews. **_

_I'm pushing up daisies, I wish they were roses  
>I feel like I'm drowning but nobody knows it<br>I'm pushing up daisies, I wish they were roses  
>I feel like I'm dying, just want you to notice<br>_

_Somehow the grave has captured me  
>show me the man I used to be<br>just when I feel my breath is running out_

_The earth moves and you find me, alive but unworthy  
>broken and empty, but you don't care<br>because you are my rapture, you are my savior  
>when all my hope is gone, I reach for you<br>you are my rescue  
>you are my rescue<em>

Dean watches Castiel break apart on stage, under that pale, dark clothed chorister, is someone made of warm skin and blood and a hurting, aching heart.

The crowd are silent, quietly scuffling in adoration, as they watch their idol pour out his love to Jesus.

Dean stands at the back of the stage, once again waiting to go on, and knows that the song is for him.

Don't let me drown  
>can you hear me<br>because I am  
>calling out<br>I'm underground  
>won't you pull me out?<p>

Dean screws his hands up on his thighs and feels his chest clench up tight. Sweat is already blooming on his skin in the heat of the backstage warren, but he turns hot and cold by turns as the words hit him. Because Castiel clearly means every, single, one.

He was there when Castiel wrote this song, or at least, he thinks he was there when he had the idea for it. Some time after their tryst at the awards night, they'd sat side by side on a catwalk over the stage at another venue, hiding out and trying to spend a little time before one or both of them had to get back to life as they knew it.

"I don't think I can do this anymore." Castiel had said, and Dean's blood had felt like hot black rubber in his veins, turning thick and solid.

"Which part, the screwing or the lying?" He asked, never particularly overly gifted in the tact department.

"Anything." Castiel said, vaguely. "Dean...I spend eleven months of the year touring, performing and living out of a suitcase. All those people who think I'm...some kind of saint...and all I want to do is tell them..." He wrinkles his brow bitterly. "Tell them that I hate God and they can screw it – that I can't do this without you."

"Do this – what?" Dean asked.

"Life, Dean." Castiel was never particularly phased by his lover's bluntness, he almost preferred it to most other peoples way of speaking. They'd been sleeping together for over a year, and he honestly couldn't think about loving anyone else.

"Cas...you're not going to do anything bad are you?" Dean murmured, looking into the troubled eyes of his best friend and his only lover.

"Like what?"

"Trying to take the out." Dean said.

Castiel had smiled, though it hadn't reached his eyes. 

"You go to Hell for suicide Dean." He'd said, and that had been the end of it. Dean had gotten the joke - they were the punch line after all. Or rather, Cas was – the gay choirboy to afraid of hell to die.

Dean had taken off his necklace, a clumsy, primitive thing given to him by his brother Sam. He lopped it over Cas's head and tucked it under his shirt. 

"Don't forget about me." He'd said gruffly to Castiel's puzzled look. What he'd meant was _Don't forget what it'd do to me – don't hurt yourself, please. _

He'd seen this song in Castiel's face then.

That was two years ago, and 'Rescue' has been a crowd pleaser ever since. Dean could tell them a thing or two about why that is, about how all that pain, all that faith, has to come from somewhere- and that where it comes from is him and Cas, in closets, in filthy bathroom stalls and motels under fake names now they're old enough to sneak around like adult-pros. How some times Castiel cries silently on the nights that they're together, and on god knows how many nights that they're apart. How Dean promises wordlessly, over and over, that they'll be ok, one day, one day.

They act like it's the biggest, greatest prayer ever devoted to music – but it's just the sound a heart makes as it's being crushed, over and over again.

Dean could tell them that.

He's never been good with words, that's the thing. Castiel's music is poetry, it's shaped and rounded with perfect vowels and beautiful images. Dean has always written how he talks – blunt and without metaphor.

When 'Rescue' came out he'd listened to it on the radio, over and over. Downloaded it to his ipod once his Dad started to comment on it. And every time he heard it, it made him want to leave the room he was in and fly to wherever Castiel was currently touring. Just so he could chase the shadows away for another hour – two if they were lucky.

Casitel finishes singing and walks of stage, barely gracing Dean with a desolate look before he was chivvied off by his father. Dean isn't worried, Castiel always hears him perform, usually he waits in the wings to hear his set and then they go off and find a closet or dressing room to fuck in, breathlessly, while Dean's heart pounds with sweet words he'll never say, and Castiel holds in tears, because he hears them anyway.

Not this time.

Dean has never written a song that sounds like poetry. As he stands in front of the mike, guitar in hand, he thinks about what he has written about – he's written songs about his brother, his family and his home town. About archetypal (A Cas word) waitresses and cheerleaders and sweet young things with neat blond hair and daisy panties.

But he's never written the truth.

Until now that is.

When he starts to sing, it takes a while for him to forget the words, to forget what it means, and jsut go for it.

This might be his last performance after all. By the time he cranks it up for the chorus, he can tell he's got them, everyone in the crowd is hooked, and somewhere, Cas is too.

_He sees everything in black and white  
>Never let nobody see him cry<br>I don't let nobody see me  
>wishing he was mine<em>

_He stands there, then walks away  
>My God, if I could only say<br>I'm holding every breath for you_

_He'd never tell you,  
>but he can play guitar<br>I think he can see through  
>everything but my heart<br>First thought when I wake up  
>is "My God, he's beautiful"<br>But I'll keep the act up,  
>and pray for a miracle<br>_

_And I could tell you  
>His favorite color's green<br>He loves to argue  
>Born on the seventeenth<br>His sister's beautiful  
>He has his father's eyes<br>And if you ask me if I love him..  
>I'd lie<em>

He's going to catch hell for this.

But for once, Cas isn't going to cry. He isn't going to have to leave.

And he's made them listen.

If only for a while.

_Songs are ( with no apologies for my taste in music) – Rescue, Seabird AND I'd Lie, Taylor Swift – and I changed one lyric to make it fit._


	3. Chapter 3

_Ahh the long awaited part three. This I think will be the last part – I'm still working on about nine other things and I just don't have the will cap'n. _

Dean does indeed, catch hell for the song.

It could, he supposes, have meant a lot of things. It could be about a great many people and a great many emotions. But the fact is, Castiel Novak, born seventeenth of March, with a knockout sister and a closet interest in both guitars and Dean – knows exactly who the song was for.

So does Dean's dad – most the crowd does too, there's no hiding the kind of things Dean was feeling on that stage.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" his Dad explodes into Dean's tiny dressing room once he's stalked offstage. "What you just made us look like?"

"Well, I think I just made myself look like kind of a faggot." Dean looks at his Dad via the frameless mirror, jaw set and eyes hard and expectant. "That going to be a big deal?"

John slaps his hand down on the rickety dressing table.

"The hell were you thinking? You come to me with things like that – I'm your manager. I could have 'managed' it."

"You mean 'hidden' it." Dean grits his teeth. "I've actually been doing that just fine."

"Not as well as you think, boy."

Dean looks up at him, wide eyed.

"That's right – do you know how many stories I've had to buy off before they got going? How many times I've had to cover for you and that...Novak kid?"

"Why?" Dean grits out.

"I figured you'd get over it. Whatever teenage crap this was, and get back to what you're supposed to be doing." John sighs bitterly.

"Which is? Selling records and winking at chicks on stage? Jesus."

"Don't Jesus me." John growls. "Because of you, because of that Novak freak – we are officially media catnip. And not in a good way."

"Good." Dean yells petulantly. Standing up and backing away from the table, sending his chair clattering to the floor. "And his name, is Castiel." Dean storms towards the door.

"Call him what you want – you're not seeing him again."

"You're going to stop me, _John?"_ Dean whirls round and looks at him pointedly.

"You watch it, boy." John growls. "But no, this isn't my handiwork. After your little performance? Novak dragged his son off for a heart to heart – which I'm guessing, had something to do with them checking out." John gives him a look two parts pity and two parts triumph. "They're gone son."

Dean has never run so fast in his entire life.

He knows which room is Cas's. Of course he knows, it's his business to.

The door's unlocked, and when he goes in the beds are made. There are no suitcases anywhere and no signs that the room has been used. Except for on one bed where his amulet is sitting, next to a pad and pen.

On the pad, in Cas's neat cursive, is written _Dean. _

"Fuck." Dean tries to say, only his voice sticks. "Fuck." He finally yells, and kicks the bed. Dean drops down onto the mattress and closes his eyes, furrowing his brow as the total helplessness of the situation hits him.

Cas is gone. He's ruined his career. His Dad will probably never forgive him, and he's lost the only thing that would make it worth it.

So when Castiel opens the bathroom door and comes into the room with a puzzled 'Hello Dean' – he nearly chokes on his own relief. Castiel looks terrible, suit rumpled, tie discarded and shirt collar clumsily opened. His eyes are reddened and he's so pale he looks like he's made of plaster.

"I thought you were gone." Dean says unsteadily.

"My father left." Castiel stays still and statue like.

"Where's he expecting you to go?"

"Anywhere but home." Castiel says tonelessly.

Dean feels a small part of him crumple up at the sight of Castiel, abandoned so cleanly by his father. At least John was still around after all. At least he was somewhat invested in him as something other than a trained canary.

"Dean..." Castiel rasps. "What the hell were you trying to do?"

It kind of blindsides him, but then, Dean kind of suspected that Cas would be angry.

"You wrote about me." He shrugs.

"I wrote about you." Castiel repeats dumbly. "But I didn't sing to...thousands of people that I was in love with you. I didn't tell them you're birthday or about...Shit, Dean – how many of them know it's me now, huh?" Castiel is uncharacteristically alight with anger and shock. "How many people got your point?"

"At a guess? Maybe a few." Dean glares up at him. "Hopefully all of them. Christ Cas – sue me for not wanting to deal with this shit for the rest of my life." Dean can feel his anger bubbling towards the surface. "You think I want to be fucking in bathrooms and shitty motels under stupid fake names when I'm thirty? How about fifty? Because by then no one is going to care that I sang, no one is going to know my name – and I still won't have you – because we missed out."

Castiel looks pained.

"I want to go to college, ok?" Dean continues. "I want to be able to go somewhere with you that isn't a locked room. Get a place to live, and just...get happy – because it is killing me, seeing you miserable." He slaps a hand onto the note pad. "But fine. You want to leave without saying goodbye? If you seriously want to pull that shit with me – fine. Get the hell out."

Castiel blinks.

"I wasn't leaving." He sits down on the bed, picking up the amulet and fingering the smooth bronze lightly. "I was writing."

Dean doesn't say anything.

"I wanted to...I don't know, it seemed like a good moment to put a song together. Only I couldn't work out if I was pleased or angry."

They sit in silence for a while.

"What do you want to do at college?" Castiel asks finally.

(-*-)

It is by no means smooth sailing.

John will barely talk to Dean. Even when he shows up at his Dad's motel room with Castiel in tow and tells his father that his damn money paid for the room so he can invite whoever he wants into it, John still doesn't show any kind of grace in defeat. There's very little Dean can do about that, so he just ignores it and tells his Dad that they should probably do an interview before the paper's started making shit up.

John grunted and left for the hotel bar.

Dean and Castiel curled up in Dean's bed, wearing their underwear out of respect for john's unease. Dean played with the amulet around Castiel's neck. Castiel smiled in his sleep.

The next day John had lined up an interview with one of the celeb-news channels. Dean talked Castiel into coming along and they turned up, impeccably dressed, even Dean was wearing a clean tee, blazer and suit pants. Castiel had the amulet on, out from under his shirt. Before they left for the studio, Castiel removed his silver promise ring (his father's idea) and handed it to Dean.

"Well...you gave me something of yours." He says awkwardly.

Dean wears it on a chain around his neck.

The interviewer asks them about God and religion, so 'important' to both of them, and why they've chosen to move away from that.

Dean really hates her.

Castiel says, quite unexpectedly, that love and faith are both quintessentially human traits – and that both help you to be the best person you are capable of being.

Dean's kind of more in love with him than ever.

Castiel's father is furious that Cas did the interview without his consent. Castiel tells his Dad in no uncertain terms that he can shove his anger and that if he wants to see Castiel again he might want to reassess his priorities. Dean thinks that's code for – remembering that he's a manager second and a father first.

It's something John's having his own problems with.

Castiel helps matters in his own way by being unfailingly courteous, keeping out of John's way as much as possible, and being clearly devoted to his son.

These are three qualities John can respect if nothing else.

They're in the thorny territory of the public gallery. Everyone is talking about them and everyone wants the scoop. There are people who hate them, people who love them way too much and people who still don't know Dean from a hole in the ground.

But he no longer has to watch Castiel cry, and he can be with him all the time if he so chooses.

That, if nothing else, is something to sing about.


End file.
